Today begins with sunshine landing
on east-facing surfaces of trees
and shrubs, and on long patches of grass
between the shadows of houses—
light spilling and splashing like paint
from the brush of Turner on a day
in his later years, a day when at last
sadness lifted and he saw things clearly,
a day when he realized the truth of words
he later uttered on his deathbed, weak
but with eyes opened: “The sun is God!”
